


Boy Prince of Hell

by devils_trap



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Blood Kink, Dark Peter/Stiles, M/M, Mentions of self-harm, Peter talks a whooooooooooole lot, Pyromania, The OC at the beginning kind of got away from me and became this giant THING, This also got a lot darker than I was expecting, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-24
Updated: 2013-05-24
Packaged: 2017-12-12 20:34:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/815770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devils_trap/pseuds/devils_trap
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I could smell the depravity on you,” Peter croaked, his forehead pressed snug to Stiles’. “Beneath the scent of jizz and sweat, there it was. Ripe. You’re ripe, Stiles.” He bit at Stiles’ lower lip, teeth snapping one, two times, the second drawing blood that dribbled lazily down Stiles’ chin. “Do the others know? About this great darkness you try to hide? You can’t hide shit like this beneath stupid t-shirts and jokes, Stiles, I see you. I see you.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Boy Prince of Hell

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Lissie, who's been bitching about the lack of smut in my fics, so, here! 
> 
> Also: note the warnings in the tag, about the self-harm and things of that nature.

Since before Stiles could remember, the Stilinskis had had a wide circle of family friends. They’d always been there, coming in and out of his house at all hours, inviting them to cook-outs, bloc parties, holiday bashes, hey it’s Tuesday and we’re bored soirées. Cops, paramedics, firefighters, neighbors, men and women that worked with his mother down at the architecture firm his mother damn near carried: all of them, together in giant, wriggling masses that made Stiles feel both claustrophobic and recklessly alive, passing hot dogs and party glasses of spiked punch with a lips-sealed motion and twinkling eyes. But sometimes separately, too, like planets breaking out of their orbits to circle around the Stilinskis, around Stiles’ fiery father and star-like mother, gameboards sprawled across dining room tables, laughter echoing throughout the house.

It wasn’t unusual to come home from school to dozens of people lounging around in his living room, beers in almost every hand no matter the hour. They’d cheer and call Stiles into the room, drag him away from the front door with his backpack dangling from his arms, and sit him down amongst them. Smother him in affection, like they hadn’t just seen him the day before.

They made Stiles feel better about his loneliness at school. Who wanted to hang out with dumb gradeschool kids when they could hang out with cops? Or _firefighters_.

Stiles would watch them in awe, squished more often than not between his mother’s oldest friend, Hettienne del Sol, who ran Beacon Hill’s most popular bakery and always smelt like vanilla pastries, and her husband Quidel, Beacon Hill’s next in line to become chief of the Beacon Hills Fire Department.

Quidel was probably Stiles’ favorite family friend. In all actuality, he was Stiles’ fourth favorite person in the world—Dad and Mom were tied, then came Scott, then Batman, _then_ Quidel (sorry Quidel)—and was probably the coolest person _in_ Beacon Hills.

Next to the Sheriff, of course.

Tall, with dark, gray-accented hair and dark eyes—and a body Stiles discovered later in life that _would not quit_ , and seemed to get better with age, like a fine wine—Quidel was a Chilean-born painter’s son who had immigrated to the United States in his teens, and settled in Beacon Hills in his early thirties after meeting his wife. He liked to do things outside and drag along the Stilinskis for the ride, laughing a thick, almost mystical laugh when his wife and Stiles’ father complained about the bugs and the height of the mountains Quidel forced them to climb. Stiles was positively enraptured, and followed on his heels until he’d tire himself out. Then, he’d get to sit on his shoulders, giggling and singing songs while the rest of their party looked on fondly. Others he’d literally dangle off Quidel’s impressive arm, swinging several inches off the ground, squealing in boyish delight.

His entire right arm was covered in the most beautiful black tattoos Stiles had ever seen, and they curled around his arm in spirals, starting thin and delicate around his thin wrist, and growing into several inch thick swirls where the trunk of his body met his arm. When Stiles was still young enough to get away with it—before he noticed the _rest_ of Quidel—he would trace the swirls with his fingers, loving the contrast between Quidel’s pale skin and the dark ink, and the way the inked skin was slightly elevated if he felt _just so_. The tattoos looked like they belonged there, like they’d always been on Quidel’s arm, and the rest of him looked blank without them. They were the first tattoos that made Stiles truly love body modification.

Another thing Quidel loved was fire.

Not the kind of fire that destroyed lives, the kind that enveloped entire houses in burning embraces and clutched it until the home was nothing more than a smoldering skeleton of what once was. After particularly harrowing cases when there was loss of life, Hettienne would drag them both to the Stilinski household and sit them down in the living room. She’d rub circles into his back while Mr. Stilinski made them all Irish coffee.

Stiles didn’t like those nights, didn’t like seeing the omnipresent smile on Quidel’s face replaced with the whisper of grief and smoke. He’d curl into Quidel’s side, trying his best to ignore the smell of soot fused into Quidel’s clothing, and trace Quidel’s tattoos. It seemed to help.

When the Hale manor fire robbed Beacon Hills of so many lives, Quidel sobbed for hours. About the screaming and the arms thrust through a grate that led into the basement, and how they flailed for a while before going completely, sickeningly still. About how they weren’t able to reach the family in time and only just barely managed to drag a hysterical Peter Hale out, who struggled to go back into the flames to die with his family before the shock finally kicked in and they were able to extract him. About how on the bones of a once frequently traveled, monstrous staircase sat the remnants of a young child’s doll, its formerly pink dress charred and black.

Despite the tragedy Quidel had seen at the hands of fire, it was something he loved very much when controlled. Bonfires, fire pits, candles, even the tips of cigarettes never ceased to amaze him. Stiles figured it was _because_ he had seen what all fire could do when controlled by nothing but its endless hunger, its bottomless wrath. Seeing fire tamed like an animal, still wild enough to harm you if conditions served, but trained enough to do the tricks you asked of it, probably helped him stick with the job he loved so much. 

At the del Sol residence there was a large fire pit that Quidel liked to light whenever company was over.

Quidel’s probably the fire that lit the flame of pyromania in Stiles’ heart.

Stiles could watch the fires in Quidel’s fire pit for hours, legs tucked under him and eyes fixed on the blaze as he sat a mandatory four feet from the flames, face pleasantly warm. Sometimes if he and Quidel begged enough, his parents would give them the go-ahead and Quidel would hand him things to feed the flames, sticks and paper and occasional metal tins of lighter fluid.

Quidel would sit beside him and tell him stories of his home in Chile, of the Mapuche people and their legends. Other times he would teach Stiles about enjoying fire responsibly, gripping Stiles’ wrist just shy of too tight, smile gone and in its place a firm line, his brown-black eyes earnest and nearly desperate in the firelight.

“Fire is beautiful, Stiles, but even in places like this, here, in the fire pit, you can be burned by its beauty. Do not start a fire you cannot contain, do not do it indoors. And never do it alone,” he’d say, and he wouldn’t let go of Stiles until he got an affirmative. He’d look relieved then, smile returned and shoulders looking lighter.

As a child, Stiles liked to play with fire. His parents didn’t like it, shot Quidel looks when Stiles would ask him if he could help light the fire pit, and tried to put out the fire in his heart, so to speak.

“You don’t light a match and set it next to dynamite, Del,” his father would say, and shake his head as Stiles’ shoulder slumped.

They’d forbid him from going anywhere near an open flame unless Quidel was present. But that just made him want it more, made his skin itchy and his palms sweat whenever he saw it and had been away from the del Sol’s too long. In his later years, he’d discover that itch and that sweat to be the prelude to arousal.

His imagination would run wild with it, wild as a flame itself, and he’d fantasize about burning things, like plants, schoolwork, clothing he didn’t like. He’d pocket lighters left on his neighbor’s back porch, a chain smoking widower who smelt like clove cigarettes and peppermint aftershave, and shake with the need to light something, anything. Sometimes he’d just flick the lighters in his room, passing his fingers through the flames and laughing quietly.

They got cheaper and cheaper the more he nabbed, but Mr. O'Roy never said anything.

He got caught a few times lighting small fires at the edge of their property, fire burning sweetly in the center of a ring of mismatched stones. His parents had freaked, and Stiles’ mother had raised her voice at him, and later at Quidel, on multiple occasions, something she almost never did.

Stiles felt shamed, felt wrong, but he couldn’t seem to stop.

Quidel got permission one day to take him out, just the two of them, when Stiles was ten and at the peak of his problem, and together in Quidel’s beat up Ford, they took a drive to the coast. It had been cold, mid-October and overcast, and Stiles shivered in the cab as Quidel spoke with another firefighter who served in the area. They got permission to light a bonfire on the beach next to the water, under a spray of stars that stole Stiles’ breath just as often as the flames did.

Despite the chill he knew was there, had felt before the blaze had gone up, Stiles didn’t feel cold in the slightest, sitting next to Quidel on a comforter, watching the flames as they danced for the moon.

They sat on the beach and watched the fire until the sun rose, Stiles’ eyelids heavy, the boy fiercely struggling to stay awake under the lulling hisses and crackles. Quidel had barely spoken the entire time, but it didn’t feel like the quiet disappointment his parents radiated after they’d caught him those times. It felt like he was building up to something, trying to choose his words carefully. He was beautiful, strong, stoic sitting there, carved from marble and bathed in flames.

“I’m not mad, Stiles,” he began, and Stiles struggled even harder to stay awake. “I understand. Completely, I understand. Though I am disappointed that you violated one of my rules: never set a fire alone.” Stiles sank his teeth into the flesh of his cheek, took a deep breath through his nose. “But, I get it. Fire is…there are so many words in so many languages to describe it, but at the same time there will never be enough of them.

“Your parents are going about this completely wrong. Your love of fire is unlike fire in the respect that you cannot smother it. Smothering it makes it worse. How do you feel when you haven’t seen an open flame in a while?” Quidel turned his eyes, liquid ebony, onto Stiles.

“Like my skin is too tight,” croaked Stiles, chest feeling ready to burst at just the thought of it. “Like everything would be better if I just… _could_. I don’t wanna—I don’t wanna _hurt_ anyone, I don’t, honestly! I just—”

Quidel gripped his leg and squeezed. “It’s okay, Stiles.” And it _felt_ okay, sitting on the beach there, the fire on with them dying so the fire in the sky could rise. “We’ll fix this, I promise you.”

And they did. Quidel came over every day for a month, and then three, two, one day a week for several more months, and sat with Stiles on the Stilinski back porch, lighting things in a miniature pit he had bought just for Stiles. He’d let Stiles burn things to his heart’s content. Let him burn the tower that his heart had built for flames, down to a manageable size.

It quelled the desire inside of Stiles to see things alight, and confused the holy hell out of his parents, who protested at first but, after seeing the results, let them have their time together: Quidel, Stiles, and the flames.

As a teenager, especially after his mother’s death, Stiles lit more and more fires, on his own more often than not. He’d head for the Preserve rather than the edge of their property, because even though his parents had seen what Quidel had taught him work, they still didn’t encourage him. He’d sit and cry, scream, jerk off, around a medium sized campfire, tears on his cheek and spunk on his fingers. Sometimes he’d just stare at it, like he could divine a reason for his mother’s death if only he looked hard enough. Other time, he’d burn himself a little. Never enough to draw attention, but enough to let a little of that rage and helplessness out.

He liked the way they started out this angry, angry red, skin welling up in protest, and fade from there to a red-mauve, to a pale pink, to a silvery white, over time. Like a fire on his very own skin dying and fading into near nothingness.

He had it under control, though.

-

Fire had always been his thing, but Stiles had never hurt anyone with it before, not intentionally. Not a person. Maybe he’d enjoyed throwing bugs into an open flame. He couldn’t quite make himself harm an _actual_ animal, though.

And, sure, he’d burn himself on accident a couple of times, too eager to see the blaze burn bigger, brighter.

And, sure, there were the times that were completely on purpose. Like the times in the forest when the dirt in his mother’s grave was still fresh. Others just to see and remind himself what it felt like running heated metal across the thin flesh above his wrist, near the skin of his knee. He’d hiss with it, watch the skin welt up that angry, beautiful red, rising like the flames themselves.

Some of the most powerful orgasms that Stiles had ever had had been fueled by burning himself.

But with Peter he had aimed to _kill_ , and that sent a sick, shameful thrill straight to Stiles’ dick.

Seeing Peter on fire like that seemed to fan the flames of that desire back to a full, deafening roar. He was back to snatching lighters off his neighbor’s back porch despite being able to purchase them himself, because it reminded him of simpler times. Before the smell of burning flesh had filled his lungs, filled his dick with blood, and dreams of Peter Hale, sometimes burnt, sometimes not, sometimes still burning, plagued his sleep.

Stiles had dreamed about Peter long before he set him on fire. Dreamt of Peter in the dark, his eyes burning red like too hot coals, his hands clawed and beckoning him close, his human teeth traded for sharper, animal prospects. Peter’s hand down Stiles’ shorts, or around his neck, or dragging too-sharp nails across the soft flesh of his belly, thin streams of blood dribbling down the budding impressions of Stiles’ abdominal muscles. Peter’s teeth in his neck, his wrist, on the inside of his thigh, birthing an entirely different type of fire, a flame that roared and howled unlike any other Stiles had ever come across.

He’d wake up hard, if he was lucky, with the ghost of Peter still burning his skin.

If he wasn’t, his sheets would be soiled, and he’d have to walk on shaky legs to throw them into the washer.

-

He’d managed to hide it, he’d thought, though Scott sometimes asked him if he felt okay.

“You’re shaky,” Scott had said once, in the Jeep after they had been forced to meet up with Derek and his pack.

Peter had eyed him the entire meeting. At first, it had just been to get a rise out of Stiles after he had asked why the _human sidekick_ was there. But Stiles’ obvious discomfort seemed to amuse him, and the smirk Peter wore grew every time Stiles refused to make eye contact, every time he shifted anxiously in his seat. When Stiles shoved his hand into his pocket and gripped onto the black bic there with all his might, occasionally flicking it without pressing down on it, Peter’s smirk changed, became hungry, and his eyes zeroed in on Stiles’ hand.

“Peter makes me—nervous. Makes me nervous,” said Stiles, and he licked his lips, tightened his grip on the wheel.

Makes me nervous.

Makes me scared.

Makes an appearance when I beat off more than I’d like to admit.

“Peter makes everyone nervous,” Scott agreed, and took Stiles’ answer to be what it was: an end to that topic of conversation.

-

“It’s dangerous to play with fire, Stiles. Hasn’t anyone ever told you that before?”

“Peter—”

“And so close to the Manor, tsk, tsk.”

“How did you—what—”

“The smell of smoke and precome is damn near choking, Stiles, honestly.”

“I—”

“Plus, I figured I’d find you out here at your old haunts sooner or later. After Laura, I stumbled across a bunch of these little campsites, reeking of teenage boy and ash. Been wondering when the culprit would reappear.”

-

He didn’t do such a good job of that, he guessed. But maybe it was just Peter.

-

Stiles stood with his hand fisted, grip loose, tight, loose, tight, on the base of his dick, as Peter stared at him over the top of the fire. He felt like prey putting on a show. Like a meal that had turned on the oven of its own accord and thrown itself into a pot of water, waiting to be cooked and eaten. He was still fully clothed spare his pants rucked down enough to get his junk comfortably out, but Peter always made him feel completely naked, like his gaze was a second away from turning all of his clothes, his protective layers, to ash, Peter the flame that would consume him whole.

“Don’t stop on my account,” Peter insisted, and he raked his gaze over Stiles’ exposed dick, the angry purple-red of its head and the way it gleamed with precome in the firelight. He licked his lips, very much the predator, the big bad wolf in the woods, and swayed toward Stiles. He was contradictions in the glow, kin to Adonis, loved by goddesses for his prowess yet feared for his darkness, for he was kin to Adonis, yes, but also kin to beast. He was a dark, fiery mixture of Hades and Apollo bathed half in flames, half in darkness. So sure of himself, his path, his sex, his place in both the light and the dark.

But at the same time, the echo of being burnt alive not once but twice would cross his face, and he’d look haunted. As quickly as the whisper had come, it was replaced with the other half of its coin: the same desire for the flames and her kind that ate away at Stiles.

When a tense silence fell between them, a showdown at high noon between two cowboys wielding lit sticks of dynamite instead of pistols, Stiles started pulling on his dick again.

Peter was on him all at once, in front of him, all around him; his presence so great it smothered him from all sides.

Stiles surmised that this was what it felt like to truly be engulfed in flames.

“Kinky little shit,” hissed Peter, his hands flitting around Stiles’ hips like he couldn’t bear to decide what to touch first. He settled for crowding in even closer, the wet tip of Stiles’ dick brushing against the button of Peter’s dress shirt, and grabbed Stiles by the jaw for a biting kiss. Stiles knew he would likely have twin bruises there in the morning, but he also knew they wouldn’t be the only ones he got.

Peter’s other hand made its way into the sagged backend of Stiles’ jeans, and with clawed fingers he gripped the meat of Stiles’ ass and squeezed until they pierced him. He smelled like aftershave, like the leather of his trench coat, like the soot of the Hale house unique in its despair, like the dirt hole he’d crawled out of.

Stiles was enraptured, felt like a willing, begging sacrifice on the altar for a beloved god.

“I could _smell_ the depravity on you,” Peter croaked, his forehead pressed snug to Stiles’. “Beneath the scent of jizz and sweat, there it was. Ripe. You’re ripe, Stiles.” He bit at Stiles’ lower lip, teeth snapping one, two times, the second drawing blood that dribbled lazily down Stiles’ chin. “Do the others know? About this great darkness you try to hide? You can’t hide shit like this beneath stupid t-shirts and jokes, Stiles, I see you. _I see you_.”

Kissing Peter was a bit like going to war. Vicious and bloody and with a single purpose: coming out on top. Stiles couldn’t ascertain whether he was winning the battle, or if he was losing it, so he screwed his eyes shut and kissed Peter even harder.

If not the victor, a damn good martyr.

“Should’ve let me Bite you, Stiles,” Peter whispered. The hand holding his face fell to Stiles’ dick, his claws mercifully (or was it sadly?) retracted, and he yanked, too much, too fast, too good. It hurt but in the sick kind of way that also felt good, that made Stiles’ toes curl in his sneakers and his dick throb in Peter’s hand. “Do you have _any_ idea? The damage we could inflict?”

Stiles mewled into the kiss, his hips snapping into Peter’s waiting hand, tip of his dick still bumping into Peter’s shirt. He felt the trickle of blood down the back of his thighs, sticking his jeans to his already overheated skin.

The thing about burning yourself is that there’s usually little to no blood, something Stiles was thankful for before because the clean-up was easier. Now, though, with the smell of iron heavy in the air, blending in with the smell of burning wood, Stiles felt robbed.

The smell was divine.

When Peter frantically gathered some of the blood with the hand on Stiles' ass and used the blood to ease a finger inside of him, Stiles’ knees buckled and he keened. Peter rolled with it, groaning low in his throat as he helped Stiles to the forest floor. He removed his finger for a moment to viciously yank off Stiles’ pants, throwing them over his shoulder with Stiles’ sneakers tangled in the bottoms of the legs.

Stiles worried for a moment about them being flung accidentally into the fire, but when Peter thrust two fingers in, the thought of pants completely escaped him. It burned, too much and not enough slick, but Stiles reveled in it, threw his legs over Peter’s shoulders, crossed his ankles and demanded more.

“I’d fuck you on top of all of that carnage after we’ve burnt it down. I’d burn down every fucking city so you could see the light you shine,” he cooed as he mercilessly shoved his fingers into Stiles’ ass, bending Stiles near in half to get a better angle. His knuckles would bump repeatedly into the rim of Stiles’ asshole and Stiles would fuck his hips back into it. The bulge of Peter’s erection rubbed against the top of Stiles’ ass and his lower back, and Stiles grinded into it, moaning as Peter moaned, swallowing them both down in a kiss that was more teeth than anything.

“Tell me you’d like that,” Peter demanded. “Tell me you’d like it if I fucked you up there, showed you what I could give you, what you deserve.”

“I’d like it!” Stiles wailed. All of the clothing Peter was wearing was getting in the way of _contact_ , and Stiles protested high in his throat as he ripped at Peter’s shirt, buttons flying on the dirt beneath him. He scratched his way to Peter’s back and dragged his nails down the skin there, feeling slick blood on his fingertips before the skin healed.

So he dragged his nails down again, and again.

The roar Peter sounded then, his mouth and fangs against Stiles’ temple, made Stiles’ brain shake.

“Again. Tell me you’d like it if I fucked you in front of everyone. Showed you whose bitch you were.”

“Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me.”

“Tell me!”

“I’d like it, fuck, Peter, fuck me, _fuck_.”

The squelch of Peter’s fingers slipping free of Stiles’ ass was lost under their harsh panting. Peter, calm, collected, debonair Peter Hale, looked crazed on top of him, smiling with too much and just the right amount of fangs. His face half shrouded in shadow, half bathed in the light of the flame to their side. His chin had blood on it from kissing Stiles’ bitten, bleeding lips, and his nostrils flared every now and again, his eyes going hazy with the scent of them together.

“Take off your clothes. Quickly now, Stiles,” he urged, sitting back on his ankles. He ripped his shirt and coat the rest of the way off, watching hungrily as Stiles frantically shimmied out of his shirts. Once rid of the shirt, he pinched one of Stiles’ nipples tightly between the fingers of the hand he used to finger him. Blood from that endeavor smeared along Stiles’ chest.

“T-Tell me you have something, anything,” Stiles groaned, bending his legs again to remove his fucking socks. Then he let his legs fall to either side of Peter, offering himself up for him completely.

“Do you have any idea the picture you make?” Peter asked, and his voice was pregnant with awe.

Stiles blushed for the first time that evening.

“You’ve already literally seduced the pants off me, Peter,” he said, eyebrow raised. Stiles gripped his dick with his right hand, his fingertips dark with Peter’s dried blood, and jerked himself several times, eyes locked with Peter’s. “No need to wine me and dine me. Just tell me you have something in one of your pockets.”

A smile then, wide and full of teeth. “I do like to come prepared,” Peter replied, and Stiles rolled his eyes at the corniness of it. Peter scoffed at him back, but bent towards his fallen jacket nonetheless. He rooted around in its pockets for a moment before rearing back with a pleasant sound, and shimmied a bottle of lube in Stiles’ face.

“Presumptuous,” Stiles mumbled, but he returned Peter’s shark grin and spread his legs even wider. “How’d you know I’d let you even _touch_ me?”

The lube gleamed in the light as Peter poured it. Peter made a pondering sound and then inserted two fingers back inside of Stiles.

Getting scissored while the person fingerfucking you looked ponderous was weird, Stiles thought.

“I had a feeling,” he crooned as he bent forward, forehead against Stiles’ temple. At random intervals he would snap his teeth against Stiles’ face. “That you’d grant me the privilege. Getting fucked bareback in the woods next to an open fire by an older, handsome man? Occasionally with your own blood? How many of those little boxes of yours have been checked off?”

“Bareback? You brought—fuck—lube, but no condom?” Token protest, but inside Stiles was roaring, hungry for it. Protection be damned. He had already broken so many of the safety rules his father had ingrained in him—“Don’t go into the forest alone”, “don’t light fires alone”, “don’t have sex with strange older men, sh, Stiles, just hear me out”—what was one more? Could werewolves even _get_ sexually transmitted diseases?

Peter removed his fingers to go at his belt buckle and zipper.

Stiles watched his fingers with rapt attention.

“Now, now, Stiles,” Peter said, coating his cock in slick and tugging a few long, luxurious times. His eyes shine black like coal in their clearing. “Who said I would give you a choice?”

Stiles was right. This _was_ what it felt like to get eaten alive by the flames.

It burned when Peter pushed in, all at once and only at one speed: fast. He gave Stiles no time to adjust and Stiles’ face scrunched up with the pain, even as his mouth fell slack and let loose high, punched-out whines. Peter’s hips were just as merciless as his fingers, but now instead of driving two admittedly decent sized fingers inside of him, Peter was shoving his dick, curved slightly to the left and of an average length with of a delicious girth, in with all his might. Rapid punches of his hips in and out of Stiles, the sound of his sac slapping against Stiles’ back loud between them. He dug his nails into Stiles’ hips, bright red crescents of pleasure-pain, and yanked Stiles against him, as if he could get any closer.

“Such a slut for it,” Peter groaned. “Would you let just anyone do this to you?”

The grass and dirt were slick beneath Stiles’ back, from sweat and from abrasion and the cut caused by the rock pressed into the side of his left shoulder. Stiles rubbed himself deeper into the earth, fucking himself back on Peter’s dick at the same time. “No.”

“Tell me who you’d let fuck you into the dirt like an _animal_ ,” Peter demanded. He flashed his eyes bright blue and snapped his hips, the head of his cock rubbing sharply against Stiles’ inner walls.

Stiles wailed. “You, fuck, Peter. Fuck _you_ , shut up and fuck _me_.” There were tears in his eyes, because of the wounds now undoubtedly on his back, hips, and ass. Because of his shame.

Because of the God damn revelation that was Peter’s dick in his ass.

When their mouths met again they tasted of blood. Of the fire burning them both up like supernovas.

Peter was close then, his hips driving into Stiles at an erratic pace. “Gonna fuck you full of me. Hope your friends smell it for days. Then I’m gonna climb in your window while your father’s asleep in the next room and fuck you within an inch of your _life_.”

Stiles dug his nails into Peter’s back as he screamed his release. After he came, he shook in the dirt, feeling shattered into a million tiny pieces. He sobbed into Peter’s mouth as they kissed.

“Gonna mark you, so no one else touches you,” Peter whispered, “and together we’re going to burn this world to the ground.”

Stiles shivered through Peter’s climax, his nails still pressed into Peter’s now healed flesh, the bastard child of a hug.

“Look at you, look at you. Do you have any idea what you look like?” The caress Peter gave him made him shiver even harder, and he looked up to see the awe back in Peter’s eyes full force. “Fucking boy prince of Hell, you are, fuck.”

Stiles mused the nickname suited him.

**Author's Note:**

> Quidel is said to mean "burning torch" in Mapuche, which I thought worked nicely with the theme of the story. Not the bareback fucking in the woods, but the fire lol


End file.
